


Anniversary

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Paul find different way to celebrate their anniversary every year.  I took the date of their becoming more than friends from <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/_two_of_us_/">here</a>, which was a project that came out of the johnheartpaul comm. I highly recommend reading it if you haven't already - there's some fantastic story-telling. The true story behind it is that John received some birthday money for his 21st, and with it took Paul to Paris for two weeks. Nothing even remotely slashy about that, nope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> I am in the process of archiving all of my old fics from the johnheartpaul comm on lj here. This is not new fic, although it may be new to you.

1\. Paper - 1962

John was sitting in the kitchen hunched over the first cup of tea of the day as Cyn brought in the post which had just arrived. She flipped through it quickly, setting aside the shopping flyers to look at later and putting the bills in a separate pile. She handed one largish envelope over to John, who grunted as he recognized Paul’s handwriting. He opened the envelope quickly and the paper sleeve from a forty-five fell out. Inside it held not 45s but a couple of postcards – one of the Eiffel Tower and one with a photo of Edith Piaf. He turned them over. There was nothing except a scrawled note on one, “First is always paper”.

“What is it,” asked Cyn.

John showed it to Cyn who looked at it mystified. “What does it mean?” she asked.

“Damned if I know. Daft git’s getting all cryptic on me.”

“Maybe it’s for your birthday?”

“Not much of a pressie. Wait – what day is it today?”

“Tuesday.”

“No, the date.”

“The sixth.”

John smiled briefly and shoved the postcards back into the paper sleeve and stood up.

“Probably some sort of joke he thinks I’ll get. Not worth worrying about,” he said as nonchalantly as he could, heading out of the room.

He went to the sitting room and, making sure the door to the hall was closed, dialed Paul’s number. The phone was answered with a grunt.

“Happy anniversary,” he said.

“You remembered!” said a pleased Paul.

“No,” he admitted sheepishly, “but you did. Confused the hell out of Cyn, by the way.”

“Well, couldn’t go all out, now could I? What with you being a newlywed and all. I take it you weren’t confused though.”

“Well, briefly, but it was the Edith Piaf that did it for me. I still get flashes of dancing with you. Warms my bed at night.”

“Mm. You know, that’s a very good idea.”

“What?”

“Warming your bed. Or, actually, my bed, as yours has Cyn in it and, lovely as she is, she might object to my presence.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think she’s got a soft spot for you.”

“Still…”

“Yes. Still. So I’m coming over.”

“Now?”

“Is it okay?”

“Always.”

John hung up the phone, went upstairs to get dressed, kissed Cyn briefly on his way out the door and headed to Paul’s. 

Paul answered the door quickly in response to his knock, pulling him into the flat and pushing him up against the door. He kissed him, softly at first, then with increasing ardour, hands holding John’s face. When he stopped John grinned at him, opening his mouth to speak. Paul shushed him, putting one hand over his mouth, then led him further into the flat, back into the bedroom. Once there he went over to the record player that had a stack of 45s ready to play. He pressed a couple of buttons and Edith Piaf’s voice filled the room.

“You’re an incurable romantic, aren’t you?” asked John, smiling.

“You complaining?”

“No. Not at all. It’s kind of cute.”

Paul just grinned at him then moved in close to John, taking him in his arms and swaying with him to the music.

“Remember that night?” he whispered, “Dark club. Brilliant music. That kiss.”

“I remember,” answered John, shivering slightly as he felt Paul’s breath on him, “I remember how much I wanted you, how it all felt so natural, so right. I remember how terrified I was that you might not want me.”

“I wanted you, John,” Paul breathed in John’s ear, “I’ve always wanted you.”

They kissed again as they swayed, then Paul pulled John’s t-shirt off and John’s hands reached for Paul’s belt and their hands and mouths began to explore, moving to the places that made them sigh and moan. They collapsed on the bed and their lovemaking took on the tempo of the music playing behind them, bodies moving in perfect unison to Chuck Berry and Elvis and Little Richard, a secret dance of thrust and writhe, a rhythm known only to the two of them.

Later John, awakened from a post-coital doze by his bladder, slipped back into the bed beside a sleeping Paul, who lay sprawled on his stomach. John slid a hand along Paul’s back, then leaned in and kissed Paul’s shoulder.

“Happy anniversary,” he whispered, “I love you.” 

2\. Cotton - 1963

They’ve fallen into a routine that works for them. Mid-afternoon John shows up at Paul’s, or vice-versa, and they spend three hours writing. They manage to get a lot done in three hours, and now that they’re really starting to make it big it’s important to both of them that they have an increasing catalogue of songs to draw from.

This particular afternoon, however, is a little different. Oh, John shows up at Paul’s mid-afternoon, guitar in hand, but Paul has other things on his mind. When John comes in Paul hands him a package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. John unties it to find an old paint-stained t-shirt. He looks at it for a minute then up at Paul.

“Second anniversary is dirty laundry?”

“Cotton.”

“Ah. I’m never going to bloody remember the date, you know.”

“I know,” answers Paul calmly, “I don’t care. I’ll remember for both of us. The important question is do you remember the shirt?”

John stares at it for a minute then smiles as the memory comes back.

It was high summer and they were hanging out in a park in Liverpool. They had a gig the next night at the Cavern Club, but this day was an off one so they were just relaxing. As the temperature climbed, Paul stripped off his shirt and shoes. He was standing, just in his jeans, throwing bread to the ducks in the pond, when John came up suddenly behind him.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly.

Paul turned to look at him and grinned.

“Oh aye,” he answered, “and what are you going to do about it?”

“Paint you,” said John. “I want to paint you, Paul. May I?”

Paul looked at him then nodded agreement. They headed back to John’s where, after some rearranging of bits of furniture and bits of body and a little bit of fooling around just to keep things interesting, John decided on a pose. He stood Paul in the doorway to the loo, shirtless, one hip leaning against the doorframe, one hand over his head holding the ledge of the doorway, the other hand in the pocket of his unzipped jeans. 

“Why this pose?” asked Paul

“It’s the way you stand after we have sex, when you’re coming back from the loo and watching me smoke.”

“You’re incredibly sexy when you smoke naked, you know.”

“So you keep telling me. Now hush and let me paint.”

Paul obediently kept still while John worked, lost in his own thoughts of the view he usually had from this particular vantage point. This brought about a rather predictable physical reaction, which brought about an equally predictable physical reaction from John. At some point during the process John decided that it would be much more fun to paint Paul on Paul and things got rather messy from then on.

Later, Paul dragged John to the shower to help him clean off. John had been cleaning his brushes using Paul’s shirt and brought it with him. Shower on, they huddled close to both keep under the spray. Paul took out the soap and handed it to John who lathered up his hands and started to stroke Paul’s chest. Paul stood lost in the feeling as John’s soapy hands caressed his torso, then sighed as he felt warm cloth washing away the paint. When he opened his eyes he saw John using his shirt as a washcloth, spreading the lather over Paul and rinsing away the paint. He reached around Paul’s body to do his back. Paul took the opportunity presented and kissed him. John smiled briefly (“Randy sod”) and kissed back harder. Soon they both had soapy hands and reaching down began to stroke each other’s erections, squeezing and releasing, hands sliding over soapy skin, t-shirt dropped to the floor of the tub, breathing becoming ragged, water pouring down both their necks as they bent their heads to watch each other, steam laden with the scent of soap and skin and sex .

Now John stands looking at the same t-shirt, then up at Paul in wonder.

“You kept the shirt?” he asks.

“A memento,” replies Paul.

“But…we’ve had sex in showers other times. And I’ve painted you a few times now. Why that time?”

“Do you remember what happened when we got out of the shower?”

“Cynthia came back and we had to scramble to look innocent.”

“Well, yes,” Paul laughs, “but I meant before that.”

“No.”

“You told me you loved me.”

“Ah.”

“It was the first time…at least, the first time when you didn’t think I was fast asleep and couldn’t hear you.”

“You knew?”

Paul smiles, “Actually…no, not until this moment. But it seemed likely.”

“Bastard!” yells John as Paul, seeing the look in his eyes, turns and bolts, laughing, from the room.

3\. Leather - 1964

John stretched and yawned, consciousness returning slowly in the light of day. He lay for a minute staring at the ceiling while his brain slowly began to come to attention, then he smiled and rolled over to look at Paul. Paul slept with his back to John, having rolled over and away some time in the night. John slipped an arm around his waist and nuzzled into his shoulder. Paul grunted briefly, one hand reaching over to hold John’s.

“C’mon, sleepyhead. Up.”

“Fuck off,” grunted Paul.

“Now, is that any way to greet the new day?”

“It is when someone’s taken a hammer to your head.”

“Mm. You did get a bit carried away last night.”

“Mm. So shut up and let me sleep.”

John smiled into Paul’s shoulder and ran one hand down his side, coming to rest on his thigh.

“Paulie…” he muttered.

“Mm?”

“I know a way to make you feel better…”

“Mm?”

“And you’re already naked so we’re halfway there.”

“Fuck off, John.”

“Paulie…” 

“No, John. My head hurts and the last thing I need is you hammering away at me. Leave me be.”

“Paulie…” John continued to wheedle, hand moving now down Paul’s back, leaving a trail of soothing warmth.

Finally, Paul turned over and looked at John.

“What?” he asked in exasperation.

“Happy anniversary,” said John, smiling.

“What?”

“It’s the fifth. It’s our anniversary.”

“John,” sighed Paul, “you know I love you, right?”

“Yes.”

“So don’t take this the wrong way – but you’re an ass. Our anniversary is the sixth.”

“No. Can’t be.”

“Yes, it can. It’s the sixth, always has been.”

“Well, shit. Just as well I didn’t get you anything then, isn’t it?”

“John!”

“Well, but I remembered, at least. That’s progress, right?”

“Wrong bloody date, though.”

“Yeah, but I’m getting there. Another few years and I’ll get it just right.”

Paul smiled at that and leaned over and kissed him.

“You’re planning on another few years, then, are you? Good to know.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, unless you keep letting your hangovers get in the way of my morning hard-on. Then I might have to consider trading you in, you know. Nothing personal, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I’d just have to go see what Ringo’s like in the morning.”

“Ringo? I always figured you’d go for George first.”

“Well, he’s prettier, I’ll give him that – but have you seen him in the morning?” John gave a mock shudder, “It’s frightening.”

“Daft git.”

“So what did you get me?”

“What makes you think I got you anything?”

“Paul. Please. You’re an incurable bloody romantic. I know you’ve got something squirreled away. A pair of dirty socks that I wore on Sullivan, an empty whiskey bottle from some drunken evening when we kissed all night, a used condom from that night in Philadelphia. Something.”

“Well…”

“Ha! See?” laughed John, triumphant, “Go on, go get it. I’ll wait here.”

“My head hurts. You’ll have to go get it yourself. And while you’re at it, find me something for my head.”

“Okay. Where is it?”

“Bathroom linen cupboard. Under the sheets.”

John left the room, humming and rubbing his hands in glee. Paul lay back on the pillows, smiling. He loved getting presents for John – he was so damn happy to get whatever Paul could find, and Paul took great pleasure in finding just the right thing. John returned soon with a brown paper bag, balanced carefully with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. Paul took the glass and the bottle from him and took a couple of aspirin while John climbed back into the bed.

He held the bag to his ear and shook it. Paul’s grin grew wider. It was like watching a kid at Christmas. 

“It doesn’t shake. Slides a little, though. Solid. Feels like a book, but we’ve already done paper, haven’t we?”

“Smell it.”

“Ah. Three’s leather?”

Paul nodded.

“A leather book? Something smutty, no doubt.”

“Open it.”

John opened the bag and slid out the book. He sat with it in his hands for a minute, staring at the cover, then opened it to look at the flyleaf. He looked up at Paul, completely stunned.

“Jesus, Paul.,” he breathed.

Paul, barely restraining himself from hugging himself in glee at John’s reaction, merely asked, “Is it all right?”

“All right? You’re fucking kidding me. First edition, leather bound, autographed. And just look at these illustrations. You’ve outdone yourself. I’m not fucking worthy.”

Paul reached over then and took John’s face in both his hands. He leaned in close and kissed him.

“You are, you know. You’re absolutely worthy. Of this and of everything else I could possibly imagine to give you. I love you and I want to make you happy.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded.”

“So, read it to me, this favourite book of yours.”

“Mm. Come here, then.”

They arranged themselves so that Paul’s head was pillowed on John’s chest as John flipped through the Lewis Carroll, stopping every now and then to read favourite bits aloud, both completely content. 

Suddenly, John grabbed Paul with one hand as he declaimed, “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!”

“Planning to catch me with your claws, are you?”

“Actually, I was thinking more of biting you.”

“Well. As long as you’re not expecting me to do anything about your vorpal blade. My head still hurts.”

“I thought you liked my vorpal blade. If I recall correctly, the exact words were, ‘Oh God oh God, it’s so big.’”

“That was before it went snicker-snack. Most disconcerting, that.”

“Jesus, Paul. Have I told you lately how completely besotted with you I am?”

“Ah, come to my arms, my beamish boy.”

“Calloo! Callay!” John chortled as they rolled into each other’s arms.

\-----------------

1965 - Fruit/flowers

They were in the studio, at the end of a very long day. The others had all gone home, Paul and John staying behind to work on a harmony that had been eluding them. They’d stopped briefly and Paul was just tuning his bass as John came up to him and handed him an apple.

“Thanks, mate, but no. I’m not really hungry.”

“Well, save it for later, then.”

“No, it’s okay, John. Thanks.”

“Paul,” said John, patiently, “it’s a gift.”

“What?”

“A gift. I got the date right this time. And four is fruit.”

Paul looked at him for a moment, lost, then comprehension dawned and he grinned.

“You really did get it right,” he said gleefully, standing up and pulling John into a hug.

“See? I knew I’d get it right eventually. And you forgot, didn’t you? Hah! Now who’s the romantic?”

“You’re a complete ass when you’re smug, you know that?” Paul laughed, hugging John tighter, making a mental note to call the hotel later and cancel the room he’d booked – and find out what they’d charge for cleaning up all those rose petals.

1966 – Wood

Paul was in the studio working on the film soundtrack when a messenger arrived with a small box. Seeing it was from John he stopped what he was doing and opened it eagerly. Inside was a small wooden carving of a donkey and a card. The card read, “Love, Your Ass.” He laughed and picked up the phone and, after fighting with Spanish telephone operators, was eventually connected.

“Yes?” John answered the phone brusquely.

“See, I can’t decide if I should read it with or without the comma.”

There was a pause, then John started to laugh.

“Either way, really, I suppose. I love you and your ass and I, as you have asserted with monotonous regularity over the years, am an ass, so it all works out.”

“I love you.”

“And I you.”

“I miss you. We shouldn’t be apart today. You should be here, or I should be there, either way, I don’t care, and we should be naked and sweaty.”

“Mm. Sounds heavenly. Why don’t you come here then?”

“I can’t. I’ve got deadlines with this film and recording isn’t going all that well.”

“So take a break.”

“John, I can’t. I’d love to, but people are counting on me.”

“Fuck ‘em. Rather, come here and fuck me.”

“I can’t. But you’ll be home soon, right? And then I can give you your present.”

“Ooh! Is it wonderful?”

“Well, it’s no ass, but I think it’ll do.”

“You should have sent it out.”

“What? And miss seeing your face? That’s no fun.”

“I miss you.”

“Me too.”

“I want you.”

“Me too.”

“I love you.”

“Me too.”

“Next year we’re together, right?”

“Right.”

1967 - Candy

The alarm clock sounded and two pairs of brown eyes opened and stared at each other.

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“That noise.”

“It’s not me. I thought it was you.”

“Hmm. Alarm clock?”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. It’s on your side.”

“Fuck.”

“That’s better.”

“Shhh.”

“Get up.”

“You go first.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Me either.”

“Well someone’s got to go first.”

“Right.”

“So go on.”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that any way to talk to me on our anniversary?”

“What?”

“Our anniversary.”

“Today?”

“Yup.”

“Bet you think I forgot again.”

“Did you?”

“Nope. You?”

“Nope.”

“So what did you get me?”

“It’s under the bed. What did you get me?”

“It’s under the bed.”

“Okay. 1, 2, 3, go!”

“Wha…John!”

“What? Oh, shit, Paul.”

“Great minds.”

“Well, they are your favourites.”

“And yours.”

“And now we won’t have to share.”

“Two of every kind! Can I have your cherries?”

“Only if I can have the strawberry cream.”

“Deal.”

“Mmmm.”

1968 – Wool

He sat in the studio at Apple, not really doing much of anything but trying to keep busy. They’d been working on and off on the new album, but today was pretty much an off day. He came in, though. He always did. It’s what one did, when one had a job. You go in every day, take care of business, no matter how you feel.

And he felt like shit.

He opened the drawer in front of him and took out the little stuffed lamb hidden in there. He’d bought it last year, anticipating John’s face when he saw it. He’d had no idea, then, that they wouldn’t make it to seven. 

He supposed he should be happy – six years was a record for him and relationships. And really, if he was a better man he’d be happy for John, happy that he’d found someone he loved so much.

Except he’d thought John already had that.

1981 – China

“Paul? Honey, it’s getting late.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be along in a minute.”

“What have you found? Something for the kids?”

“No. It’s a donkey. A little china donkey.”

“Um…it’s a little…touristy, don’t you think?”

“Ugly as sin. Yes, I know. But while in Spain…”

“While in Spain one must buy tacky souvenirs? I suppose I should be happy it doesn’t have Greetings From Ibiza written on its stomach.”

“You go on ahead, Lin. I’m just going to buy this.”

“And do what with it? Paul, what are you thinking of?”

“John.”

“John? Why would a china donkey make you think…oh. It’s October 6th, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Lin, what do you know of October 6th?”

“Nothing much. Just that you get sad every year, and it has something to do with John. I tried asking one year, but you get so broody, so alone. I figured it was better to let you be.”

“Yeah. Let’s go for a walk. I have some stuff to tell you.”  



End file.
